


"Don't you love New York in fall?"

by foreverfangirling



Series: Potential Series [1]
Category: Supernatural, You've Got Mail (1998)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bi-Curious Dean Winchester, Crossover, Currently a oneshot, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Oneshot, Domestic, Domestic Castiel, Domestic Dean Winchester, F/M, Gay Castiel, Hate to Love, Kinda, M/M, New York, Not-yet-out-of-the-closet-Dean, One Shot, Online Friendship, Originally a series, Pre slash ??, Romance, actual dorks, actually, castiel novak - Freeform, email, in the film it is but, like completely AU, nada hunting, what a fab film, you've got mail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverfangirling/pseuds/foreverfangirling
Summary: "What will NY76 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know if I'm going to carry this on, this was originally a series but I have no motivation; I just really wanted to post at least one chapter of an experimental piece of work based on two of my favourite things; Supernatural and You've Got Mail.

"You've got mail."

Those three words are what urge him just to wake up every day. Those three words can excite him, intrigue him, and make his chest bloom, all in one sitting. Those are the three, fundamental little words that just make Castiel Novak's morning. Make it particular, just for him.

 

  
_How romantic_ , you may think, _he has an admirer, a lover; someone who cares deeply for him_. Castiel does in fact, but there are two reasons as to why the relationship is exceptional in this case. To begin with, the pairing of the individuals is, in itself, unorthodox, as both participants are male; being as though it is 1998, society has been breaking out of its shell of hollow homophobia for some time. Although, sure enough, they still get the odd glance. Castiel, however, and his partner, Balthazar Navasky, are quite content with their aesthetically apple pie life.

Secondly (and most perplexingly, given the circumstances), Balthazar is not the correspondent of said emails which are making Castiel swoon like a schoolgirl.

 

  
Now, before you leap to the conclusion of _He's a cheat!_ , Castiel is, in reality, not going behind Balthazar's back; why would he? He loves the man greatly. The only dubious component of the whole ordeal is that Castiel only ever replies to his pen-pal when Balthazar is out of the apartment, which is not in any way highly mistrustful. Conversely, the only reason why Castiel is even responding to this obscure person – a man, to clarify – is because he finds the fellow New Yorker captivating. The young man appreciates that he can oh-so-easily converse and remark with this acquaintance ( _friend_ , dare he say?), especially as Castiel has recently apprehended that Balthazar, despite the fact that he really does love him, has become quite.. _outlying_.

Possibly Castiel has just been feeling quite forlorn of late, as Balthazar has been caught up in his current publishes for _The New York Times_ , but Castiel also notices that his partner unintentionally flirts overly with anything with a pulse, which only adds irritation to his all ready lonely, confused state.

 

  
As of this morning, Castiel is anxious; by now, he should be beaming shyly at his laptop's monitor, as he reads today's topic sent by **NY67** (Castiel's "acquaintance"), whilst also considering his own reply to the man. Only, today, Balthazar is still in the flat. He is at present fluttering between the rooms, _The New York Times_ grasped lightly between his hands as he reads from an article; Castiel faintly acknowledges Balthazar remarking _Hey, listen to this, the entire work force of the state of Virginia-_ as he grudgingly folds out of the bed, heading towards the kitchen.

"- had to have solitaire removed from their computers because they hadn't done any work in six weeks." Balthazar prolongs, halting in front of Castiel, who was grateful that his boyfriend had at least made coffee. Looking up from his mug, Castiel smiled lightly, before observing: "Aren't you late?"

Balthazar merely continues: "You know what this is, you know what we're seeing here, Cassie? We're seeing the end of Western civilisation as we know it."

"This is so sad." Castiel jokes, stretching around Balthazar and seizing his coat from the table chair's back. Balthazar mockingly looks glumly at Castiel for a second, before taking the coat.

Walking towards the door, rolled-up _New York Times_ clutched in one hand and coat draped over his opposite arm, Balthazar waves the newspaper at Castiel's computer before stating: "You think that machine is your friend, but it's not." He then looks down at his watch; "I'm late."

"I'll see you tonight." Laughs Castiel; the only reply he gets is _Sushi!_ , as Balthazar rushes out the door.

 

  
Castiel stands immobile for a second, listening for any signs of a return. Placing his coffee onto the counter behind him, Castiel tiptoes away from his resting place in front of the counter, quietly stepping in the direction of the front door. The man could not see Balthazar through the fish-eye peep hole, so he stealthily walks towards the main window. There: Castiel sees between the blinds his boyfriend walking towards Broadway, no indication of turning back. With a _slightly_ guilty heart, turns back towards the kitchen, grabbing his coffee along the way before dropping on the chair before his computer.

 

  
Once his computer is booted up, Castiel feels anticipation replace that small remorse. _America On Line_ floods the screen, allowing him to log in. The monitor whirs for a moment, and Castiel can feel his heart pounding with so much force against his chest. He is greeted by the typical: _Welcome, Bookangel_ , and now Castiel feels exceedingly nervous as he waits for what follows. The flat is tranquil; there is no sound, and Castiel can hear his blood propel through his veins.

And then, an instant in reality but a lifetime for him, Castiel hears his three, beloved little words: _You've got mail._

The young man grins, azure eyes gleaming as he scans quickly through the mail.

 

** Big Cash Op: _You can make $$$ in your spare time._ **

** OIL MKT: _You can turn $20 into $20,000_ **

** THIS REALLY WORKS U CAN DO IT: _Maximise your selling ability nowwwww!!!_ **

** NY67: _The Colonel_. **

 

Castiel quickly deletes the unnecessary mail before clicking upon **NY67** :

 

 

  
**To : Bookangel**

**From : NY67**

**Subject : _The Colonel_**

 

  
**"The Colonel is my dog. He loves the streets of New York as much as I do.."**

 

 

 

✉

 

 

  
Dean Winchester felt infatuated. This detail was a transparent as glass, according to his last subject to his enthralling, if not eccentric "contact"; about his _dog_ , of all things. Of course, Dean cares for his dog greatly, but is another man really going to give a damn?

 

  
Waiting for his computer to load (and - praying - for that inevitable email), Dean pondered over the message he had sent the previous evening. In spite of remembering almost _every single syllable_ of that email, which did make him want to (marginally) cringe, Dean was satisfied with the outcome, and felt that he was now comfortable enough to talk a tad more openly about himself; he smiles lightly as he recalls his email:

 **"The Colonel is my dog. He loves the streets of New York as much as I do although he likes to eat bits of pizza and bagel off the sidewalk, and I prefer to buy them."** _How endearing; humorous,_ Dean hums to himself, as he begins to log into his machine. The man continues with his recalls: **"The Colonel is a great catcher and was offered a tryout on the Mets farm team but he chose to stay with me so that he could spend eighteen hours a day sleeping on a large green pillow the size of an inner tube."**

Dean then looks over to his German Shepherd, who is predictably resting on said green pillow. "The Colonel" is inscribed delicately upon the pillow in gold lettering, contrasting his dog's name completely, but Dean merely shakes his head fondly, ever wondering why he allowed Lisa to do such a thing.

He carries on with his recollections, and only then considered _why on Earth_ he had continued with his next sentence: **"Don't you love New York in fall?"** Dean's nose scrunches up in disgust. **"It makes me want to buy school supplies;"** _Wow, I've been spending way too much time with Sammy_ , **"I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms."** This not knowing also meant that Dean had no concept of who **Bookangel** actually is outside of _America On Line_ , which he does not consider a charm.

 

  
Just as he was about to sign into the messaging service, Lisa – Dean's girlfriend of two years – saunters into the kitchen, clad head-to-toe in Armani, the morning papers clamped under her elbow; Dean perceives that she is late to work, _again_.

"I'm late." She exhales, clicking on the espresso machine once more; her thoughts turn towards the topic of today's papers, as she says: "Random House fired Dick Atkins. Good riddance. Vince got a great review; he'll be sufferable. Murray Chilton died. Which makes one less person I'm not speaking to.." Dean laughs at her attitude, whilst she refills her cup from earlier. Turning suddenly, she grins: "Tonight: PEN dinner."

Knowing now why she grinned, Dean falters. "Am I going?" Her only response is _You promised_ , which Dean immaturely replies with a groan. "Can't I just give them money? That's the cause? Free Albanian writers? I'm for that." A stern glance sent his way alters that plan, "All right; I'll go. You're late." Lisa blunders out of the kitchen towards the front door, a string of _I knows_ following her out; she's gone.

 

  
Dean settles his eyes back to the screen; he must have subconsciously typed in his password at one point during Lisa's rambling, as he's currently in his inbox. _You've got mail._ Dean's hands fumble across the keyboard a second, his mind just as disorientated. He tells himself to calm down, because _Jesus Christ_ , he isn't a hormonal adolescent anymore; it's a damn email. His cursor hovers over the link from **Bookangel**. Hesitantly, he clicks.

 

  
**To : NY67**

**From : Bookangel**

**"I like to start my notes to you as if we're already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we're the oldest and dearest friends - as opposed to what we actually are, people who don't know each other's names and met in a Chat Room where we both claimed we'd never been before."** This is one of many qualities Dean admires about his correspondent: his friendliness. For someone he has never met before, Dean feels like he could tell all his secrets to this random guy, just because of his good-natured affection. That in itself, however, is a liability. This man could be anyone – a pervert at worse – but he may not even be a male, yet Dean genuinely believes what he(/she) says. Dean thoroughly reads through the whole extract, but what he reads next will stay with him all morning, throughout his busy schedule, his tedious lunch break, throughout tonight's PEN dinner and all through tomorrow too, just because he feels like someone _cares_ for these soppy messages of New York: **"What will he say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer, I wait impatiently as it boots up. I go on line, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing, not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beat of my own heart. I have mail. From you."**

As Dean finishes the email, blood still pumping wildly through his veins from the tantalisation, he glances around the room; his eyes land upon the clock balanced on the wall. _Crap_.

He's late. 


End file.
